15. Who needs Evel Knievel?

I'm back at the Tristar workshop early where Ricky the foreman kindly fixes a small fire extinguisher to the outside of one of my side cases, doing the job for the price of the bolts used.  Speak about last minute, but I decided to get this item from one of Shuwaik's myriad autoshops after meeting another Kuwait biker who's doing a round the world trip on his GS Adventure, but in stages.

Parvaz is a UK-born Pakistani who is Head of Maths at one of Kuwait's English schools.  Taking advantage of the long Kuwait summer break, he set off on his RTW in June last year.  Travelling eastward, he crossed Iran (after being detained over a visa issue) and Pakistan and Kashmir, visiting family and his father's grave on the way.  Having been told he could not ride his own bike across China, he arranged for it to be shipped from Karachi to Seattle on the US west coast.  He crossed into China from Kashmir and bought a Chinese made bike, rode it all the way to Beijing and sold it again before flying to the US where he hoped to be reunited with his GSA.  It never appeared.  The Pakistani shipping company turned out to be nothing of the kind.  He eventually cut his losses by flying to Karachi to get his bike shipped back to Kuwait.  This summer he plans to complete his trip and is having the bike airfreighted to Alaska, aiming to be back in Kuwait in time for the start of the new school year.

We met up at an ice-cream parlour to compare notes and bikes.  I was keen to tap into his experience and he was friendly and very helpfully willing to advise.  I was taken with various modifications he has made to his bike and its cases and particularly by the mountings he'd added to carry the liquid fuel bottle for his stove – and his fire extinguisher – and resolved to get one of my own.

Back at Tristar and the job done, John calls Saif Transport to confirm they're ready for my bike.  Mr Amer says he'll call back in five minutes.  Two hours later, he calls and says to come immediately so I head off followed by John in the Tristar van as he has a bike on board to deliver afterwards.

We meet at the Saif office where Mr Amer, all in a rush, instructs one of his sidekicks to remove my export number plate.  I protest and a big and loud discussion in Arabic ensues.  John looks as confused as I feel and something is said about getting the plate copied.  So I open my topbox and show Mr Amer the second, loose plate (something I later regret) which he grabs from me and then indicates in words and gestures that we should follow his sidekick who is now in a car by the kerb.  I question John, but he says this seems to be how things are done and to follow the car.  We travel in convoy for about five kilometers to a lorry park where there is a metal loading ramp for cars with an artic truck backing its trailer up to it.  This all looks a bit 'Heath Robinson' to me but as soon as I park, the sidekick is back at my number plate with a screwdriver and pliars.  I'm not happy and tell him to stop.

Both John and I call Tristar's Salem and Faisal to find out what's going on and they agree to check.  When they call back it seems that the Kuwait plate will be taken back from the truck driver at the Kuwait border and I'm told I'll get another plate in Jordan, another in Syria and so on.  I'd been led to believe the Kuwait export plate and its accompanying documentation would see me all the way home, so I ask them to check again particularly, if possible, with others who have used this method.  The word eventually comes back that this is how things are done and that Mr Amer 'knows his job'.       

I'm still not happy but have no choice, so the plate is removed and given to the driver.  I get handed the bolts, presumably to fix the next plate. 

The sidekick then indicates I need to ride up the ramp into the back of the truck.  "Who do you think I am," I ask, "Evel Knievel?" 

Designed for loading cars, this ramp consists of a framework supporting two parallel, flat metal runners, about three metres long sitting at an angle of about 35 degrees leading on to a level section of about two metres.  The height is about a metre and a half.  Each runner is about 40cm wide and there's nothing either side and a big open space in the middle.

John looks concerned but has been working hard with the sidekick and the truck driver to make sure the platform is stable, correctly aligned and at the right height for the open back of the trailer.  He walks towards me, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, and says: "You've got one shot.  Don't stop!"  I don my helmet and zip up my jacket then get on the bike.  I fire it up and ride in a circle to line up with the ramp.  I think… well, to be honest I try not to think, release the clutch, gun the engine and ride up and over and into the back of the trailer. 

There's much cheering and smiles as the guys climb up and John supervises the bike being positioned and tied securely against the bulkhead at the front end.  I'm still sweating as I'm told the driver's name, Tyseer, and mobile number, and take a note of the trailer's registration.  I shake Tyseer's hand and ask him to drive carefully.  He mutters something in Arabic, the only word of which I recognise is 'baksheesh' (a tip).  I say "Yeah, you'll get baksheesh when I see my bike safe in Jordan."  There's much hilarity and back-slapping and we part, John kindly offering to take me home.

But the evening's surprises are not over, as Mr Amer has yet another bombshell to deliver…